...though my life is abounding with good things to write about...new experiences and ideas, overly-wordy contemplations about who I am, stories to tell about my children. It's just that I'm...
Each day seems to be a chaotic, loud, exhausting, hilarious, fun, draining, ever-surprising, blur of confusion that seems to climax around dinner time. As the post-nap-time hunger rises, the house-hold volume increases with either whining, defiance, or absurd silliness.
Sometimes, dinner is incredibly peaceful, and fun, filled with stories from our day, stories from the Bible, cute antics, and kind words.
But sometimes it's less 'magical.'
Either way, once our meal is over, we just plow ahead towards bed-time as fast as we possibly can...trying to... clean up the kitchen, keep Sophie from climbing the stairs or eating everything in sight, play just a little bit more, change a diaper of a less-than-willing adorable monster, do pajamas, potty-time, milk, stories, and taking turns granting/dealing-with/ignoring/providing loving discipline for the countless urgent requests from Maya-who-is-supposed-to-be-in-bed.
Then, Ryan and I usually collapse and look at each other with bewildered expressions, silently communicating our memories of quieter days.
Then, I reluctantly peel myself off the couch or the bed, put on my slippers and practice my violin in the basement. Though I have to do a lot of internal convincing to actually do this instead of going to bed, once I start, I really can't stop.
We'd never actually wish away these days. We love them. Really.
We're just tired.